


The Undocumented Hazards of Ping-Pong

by czarina_kathryn



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Basketball, Broken Bones, First Time, M/M, Ping-Pong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:09:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/czarina_kathryn/pseuds/czarina_kathryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year before Rodney left for college he’d wanted a telescope for Christmas. His mother had gotten him a ping-pong table. He still hasn’t quite forgiven her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Undocumented Hazards of Ping-Pong

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Daystar for the beta!

Rodney plays ping-pong three times a week. He actually isn’t very good at it in the grand scheme of things. But he plays anyway, even though he will, in all likelihood, never win. He likes to point that out to his advisor when words like “perfectionist” and “sadist” start getting bandied around the lab. 

Ping-pong, being somewhat below the notice of the NCAA, has its practices relegated to the old (and undoubtedly asbestos filled) gym that was built back when the atom bomb was still being invented. Rodney fears for his health every time he enters that building, but he hasn’t died (or even caught pneumonia), so he doesn’t let it stop him.

Rodney had never really been a sports person. In fact, he’d really been the antithesis of a sports person. Actually, he still is, except for the ping-pong thing. The year before he left for college he’d wanted a telescope for Christmas. Sure the magnification would be horrid, but to see the stars, the galaxies, the planets, all of it, just a little bit closer; it would be worth it. 

For as long as he could remember, Rodney had lived with the quiet ache that the night sky invoked, beckoning him closer, begging him to pull himself ever farther from earth and into the stars. So, yes, telescope. His mother had gotten him a ping-pong table. He still hasn’t quite forgiven her. Although, now that he has access to some of the biggest telescopes in the world, he really ought to get over it. 

Rodney remembers standing in the garage staring at the ping-pong table feeling utterly lost (something he wasn’t used to by any stretch). Then Jeannie had hit him in the head with one of the paddles. 

So Rodney had learned to play and found, much to his astonishment, that he actually kind of liked it. The balls made nice little hollow noises when you hit them and Jeannie would let him win because he let her win at scrabble. So feeling homesick, (and terribly loathe to admit it) Rodney had signed up for ping-pong as his gym class during his ‘freshman’ year and hadn’t stopped since. 

Besides, every bit of exercise helps considering the McKay family’s predilection toward hypertension, and ping-pong can really make you break a sweat. Especially on the days when the coach pairs Rodney up with the short little Asian girls who smile and have pigtails, but then nearly take his head off with their freakishly good reflexes. Rodney has to work very hard those days not to get his ass handed to him. And even then, he usually doesn’t succeed. 

Mostly he just spends his time chasing after the little white balls as they bounce up and over (or even sometimes mysteriously under) the two-foot high curtains strategically placed around the tables specifically to corral such behavior. Rodney still hasn’t quite figured out how the curtains fail so much when they look like they should totally work, but he has several theories, each more involved than the last. 

More often than not (because Rodney really has no luck when it comes to this game) the balls take it upon themselves to not only jump the curtain, but also to roll out the door of the gym. Rodney does his best to avoid the ‘real’ athletes as he scurries down the hall after his wayward ball, but he can hear them chuckling to themselves about how they play with bigger balls than his (and, yes, he totally gets that pun and it is stupid). 

Sometimes, on the days that the world really hates him, the ball rolls across the hallway and into the athletic training room. Basketball practice starts immediately following ping-pong, so the room is always packed with tall, imposing players stretching, heating, and/or icing their various strains and injuries. 

None of the basketball players ever laugh at him, though. He doesn’t really understand why (which is possibly why the training room equals evil) because basketballs are way bigger than ping-pong balls. 

It’s actually sometimes even scarier because this one player, number four, seems to have made it his life goal to pick up Rodney’s escapee ping-pong balls and hand them back, all while smiling rather goofily. It doesn’t help that number four is kind of, absolutely, ridiculously gorgeous. 

Number four has bad calves and apparently has found more ways to sprain his ankle than you can shake a stick at. The first days after he’s managed to sprain his ankle yet again are always the worst, mainly because Rodney’s heart does this weird thing where it jumps into his throat. It’s just the sight of the ankle wrap and crutches make it unfairly hard to breathe. 

Number four is a junior and team captain of the basketball team. Sometimes it’s hard to believe he’s been smiling at Rodney for over two years now. They’re about the same age actually, although Rodney’s got a PhD and a half, and number four is still working on his bachelors. 

When the wind is blowing right and he’s feeling especially brave Rodney says more than a whispered thank you to his number four. He once even commented on the weather. And one memorable time he elucidated on black holes for the rest of ping pong practice without even realizing how much time had passed. Usually he just asks after the latest sprained ankle or calf stretching exercise. Number four always seems to smile brighter on those days (although that could just be Rodney’s wishful thinking). 

On Monday number four was suspiciously missing from the training room when Rodney’s latest catastrophic back swing sent him across the hall. Rodney nearly voiced his confusion, nearly asked where number four was, before realizing that not only would that be pathetic, but he might get himself beaten up by one of the other players (who were enormous and hulking compared to number four’s willowy frame). 

On Wednesday after practice, Rodney was shouldering his way through the basketball players waiting to get into the gym, when a gigantic hand landed on his shoulder. Rodney quickly turned to find himself looking dead on at the number twenty-three. Tilting his head up, he saw that a scowling head of dreadlocks was attached to the number. 

“You’re John’s friend, right?” The giant practically grumbled.

“John? Umm … John. I … Um …” Rodney’s brain was being less than helpful when faced with imminent crush-age. 

The giant held up his hand to his shoulder. “This tall. Messy hair. Has been trying to work up the courage to ask you out for two years.” 

Rodney had remembered that number four’s name was John at the bit about the messy hair (because, yes, messy hair was him in a nutshell), and had his mouth open to say so before the bit about asking him out finished processing. 

So what came out of his mouth may have sounded more like a dying hippo than intelligent conversation or even words at all. 

“Yes?” The giant questioned, amusement seeping into his voice. 

Rodney nodded, words kind of failing him as his brain tried desperately to remind him that this could very well be a cruel practical joke. 

“Well, the thing is, he’s broken his ankle this time and is laid up in our room for the next few days. So me and a few of the guys were thinking it’d be nice if you’d stop by and say hello.” Twenty-three used his shoulder to gesture behind him at the mention of the ‘guys’ and about five more players smiled and waved in an eager fashion at Rodney. 

Number thirty-two, who was shorter than Rodney, but had biceps the size of Rodney’s calves, stepped up next to twenty-three and said, “We think he’d really appreciate it. He’s about to go crazy, you know. He hates being cooped up. But hey, the docs say if he stays off of it he could be playing again in ten weeks.”

Number twelve sidled up and peered over thirty-two’s shoulder, fixing Rodney with a glare to rival Jeannie’s and said, “So you’ll visit, right?”

They all looked so very invested in his answer (and twelve looked like he might go homicidal in a twitchy way if given the wrong answer), so Rodney found himself saying, “Yes, of course,” before he’d really even thought it through. 

“Great,” Twenty-three said, slapping his arm and sending Rodney stumbling into thirty-two, “Meet us here after practice and we’ll take you over.” 

Practice lasted two and a half hours. Rodney spent that entire time sitting in his lab freaking out. He cursed just about everything ever associated with ping-pong, his mother, astrophysics, Jeannie, the poor quality of the coffee in the lounge, and his apparent inability to handle social situations in a grown-up manner.

In spite of his higher reasoning skills, and his lab partner’s attempts to talk him out of going, Rodney finds himself loitering outside of the locker rooms after basketball practice has ended. Number thirty-two is the first out; dressed in the ubiquitous jeans and t-shirt combo that trolls college campuses everywhere. 

Rodney himself normally ascribes to that group, but Radek (his lab partner) had insisted that if he was going to make a fool of himself, he should at least wear his nice blue button down shirt. His mother said it made his eyes look nice (and since they were his only good feature (her words exactly), it certainly couldn’t hurt). 

Twelve is the next out, his damp hair curling around his face. Thirty-two smiles at him and Rodney, feeling a bit bored, looks over at the poster about NCAA banned drugs because they could be here a while (seriously, twenty-three’s dreads have got to be high maintenance). After finding out caffeine is a banned NCAA drug (and vowing never to become an actual athlete because blasphemy), Rodney looks back over to twelve and thirty-two and gets a start. 

They are totally and inexplicably holding hands (and possibly whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears in a really couple-y fashion). Rodney is suddenly forced to re-evaluate his perception of just how gay this basketball team might be. 

He’s still staring open mouthed when twenty-three bounds out of the locker room (dressed in some sort of leather that actually looks rather normal on him, but still, leather) eyes the couple (who are now hugging) and says in a vaguely sympathetic manner, “It might be sickening, but I can vouch that it’s not contagious.” Then he snags Rodney’s arm and drags him toward the exit.

Thirty-two and twelve laughingly follow them out of the door and into the cool evening air as Rodney stumbles to keep up with twenty-three’s long strides. While walking toward the parking lot, the players talk about practice and Rodney has several million mini panic attacks while reviewing the miles long list of why this is a bad, bad, very bad idea (in spite of the apparent rampant gayness of the men’s basketball team). 

Rodney is not feeling overly optimistic by the time they reach a tiny, little pink (yes, pink) Yaris that looks like twenty-three could crush it with a single blow. 

After being crammed into the middle seat between twelve and thirty-two (awkward), Rodney finds out that this is twenty-three’s girlfriend’s car. Her name is Teyla and she drives like a maniac.

After nearly killing them all while turning out of the gym lot, Teyla turns her head to smile at Rodney (twenty-three wisely puts his hand on the wheel seeing as they’re going a good thirty miles an hour and she is NOT looking at the ROAD) and says, “Ronon has told me much about you, Rodney McKay. I am glad that you will be visiting John. He is being most unpleasant. He would not even eat my Tuttle root soup.” 

Rodney has a moment of utter terror trying to figure out who Ronon is before he remembers that’s twenty-three’s name. 

“That’s probably because it’s disgusting,” twelve quips. 

Ronon makes a growly sound, whipping around in the passenger seat, and twelve tries to burrow behind Rodney’s back while thirty-two tries to get in front of Rodney (and by extension twelve). Rodney suddenly feels very claustrophobic and slightly like he needs to scream (although that could be due to the pick-up Teyla nearly just sideswiped). 

Surprisingly enough, they arrive at the dorm parking lot without any serious loss of life. Although, Rodney’s legs are more than a little shaky as he shimmies out of the tiny car onto the pavement.

Teyla links her arm companionably through Rodney’s as they make their way towards the dorm. Her steps bouncing and happy as she traipses along making Rodney feel awkward and plodding in more ways than one.

“So you are very smart?” She says, smiling a little. And Rodney isn’t sure if she’s pulling his leg or not, but how could it matter because he is a freaking genius. Smart? Please, that doesn’t even scratch the surface. 

Rodney tells her so and she laughs herself silly as they swipe through security. Shockingly, it’s not mean laughter. Heck, it’s practically fond, like she might actually believe him. Rodney finds that more than a little disconcerting. 

In spite of having spent the past two and a half hours engaged in grueling physical activity, Ronon insists that they forego the elevator and use the stairs to reach the fifth floor, where Ronon and John share a room. 

Twelve and thirty-two leave them on the second floor (lucky buggers), but promise to come up later (when they can use an elevator undoubtedly). Rodney’s lagging behind by the time they reach the fifth floor because there are tons of freaking stairs and ping-pong might not be keeping him in as good of shape as it should. 

Ronon stops in front of room 502, letting Rodney catch up. The door has a whiteboard mounted on it and it’s covered in notes concerning (from what Rodney can discern of the atrocious handwriting) dawgs, smacking, and most disturbingly of all groovy. 

These older notes are all obscured, though, by large scrawly print, screaming in capital letters, “I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU!! (Yes, you, go away, I’m not even here).”

“He really is quite unlike himself,” Teyla murmurs, seeing Rodney eyeing the words.

“No kidding,” Rodney says more to himself than Teyla, as he lingers behind watching as Ronon opens the door. New reasons begin cramming themselves onto his list of why he really should run away. Right now.

The fluorescent hallway light stream around Ronon’s large form illuminating the cramped room as the door swings in. But all Rodney hears, all he can process, is a low and pained, “Fuck off,” from the depths of the darkened room. 

There’s something in that voice that makes Rodney want to curl up and sob because it’s number four, his number four, his John and he’s hurt and upset and for some reason it’s making Rodney hurt more than anything he’s ever encountered before.

“We brought you a visitor, John,” Teyla’s voice rings out, chipper and displaced in the face of the pain Rodney’s feeling jumping through his veins and magnifying every time it passes through his heart. 

“I don’t care.” The voice is muffled now and Rodney can make out John’s crumpled form, face buried in the couch cushions, his leg, black casted and propped up on pillows like a talisman against the world. 

“Stop being such a pig, Shep,” Ronon growls, flicking on the light switches while John tries to burrow further into the couch and flips Ronon the bird. 

Rodney’s heart swells into his throat as he cautiously steps over the threshold into the room. Rodney pauses, letting the feeling that he just irrevocably changed his life seep into him. Not in a noble prize winning way or anything, but in an everyday eating turkey instead of peanut butter and jelly kind of way. Except you know, twenty million times more important than even the noble prize, but still everyday. Rodney’s legs feel a little weaker than they should (although, those were a lot of stairs), but, if he’s going to be honest, it feels more like he’s falling and he isn’t really sure where the ground is. 

Ronon grabs him by the collar and practically throws him down on the couch next to John, before he can even begin to process the emotions racing through him. John doesn’t move, doesn’t even seem to care, and Rodney wants to reach out and touch. Touch those gray sweats, ratty around the bottoms from over use. Touch the black cast; feel it’s hard texture, and assurance of healing. Rodney ends up touching the very edge of John’s faded black shirt, letting his fingers trail over the soft material, trying to make this more permanent than even his photographic memory allows. 

John lets out a shivery sort of sigh and then jerks up in surprise, his eyes going gratifyingly large as he stares at Rodney.

“Hi,” Rodney says, giving him a little finger wave. He wants to say something more, but he’s not sure what. 

“Rodney,” John says, questioning, like he isn’t really sure that Rodney is actually there at all. 

“Yes, um, it’s me, anyway. I, I heard about your leg, I, ankle. And that, um, that sucks,” Rodney lets himself trail off, trying to avoid the flaming fireball of doom he’s constructing. 

“And I kind of missed you,” explodes out of Rodney in a rush, blurring together, but still frighteningly understandable. Rodney contemplates smacking himself on the head, but holds back because he needs those brain cells, damn it. 

But John is smiling, almost as if he didn’t register the sappy really unnecessary comments Rodney just stuttered out. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Rodney is considering the desperate maneuver of talking about his recent research, when John leans toward him. Rodney freezes, absolutely clueless about what is happening (hugging, kissing, punching, manly back slapping, seriously, what?). 

Rodney is probably about to have an aneurism when John simply tucks his head onto Rodney’s shoulder and nuzzles closer, practically bent over, trying not to move his broken ankle. Attempting to be helpful, Rodney shuffles closer because it simply wouldn’t do for John to hurt his ankle anymore. Unsure of what to do with his hands, Rodney rests them on John’s back and revels in feeling every breath John takes. 

They stay like that for a while, John breathing and Rodney watching as Ronon and Teyla bustle around making dinner. Occasionally they throw John and Rodney’s cuddle pile fond glances. Although, Rodney isn’t entirely sure if Ronon is fond or simply contemplating murder.

When Rodney finally risks glancing back at the top of John’s head, basking in the feel of the floppy hair tickling his chin, John stirs and pulls back a little. Rodney takes that as his cue to pull back too, but John is pulling him closer and then he’s pressing a kiss to his cheek and Rodney is turning a color that would make tomatoes ashamed to call themselves red. 

“Want to have dinner with me on Friday?” John asks, his voice almost conversational, except for the soft edge of desperation shading the lower regions.

“I, I would love to,” Rodney says, his voice most absolutely not breaking and John laughs, a polar opposite from where he had been when the door opened. 

“How about dinner now?” Ronon interrupts, apparently hungry, and cringing away as Teyla smacks him on the arm. 

“That would be good too,” Rodney agrees and he can feel John nodding too. Warm friction against his shoulder and it feels like flying. And he wants to feel like this forever.

He doesn’t remember making a conscious decision to kiss John, but somehow he ends up with John’s face cradled in his hands and his lips a hairs breadth away. He’s barely breathing, but then suddenly they’re kissing, and breathing really isn’t important. John. John is important and warm and opening his mouth under Rodney’s and curling his hands up into Rodney’s hair, tugging him closer. Rodney never wants it to end. But when John pulls back Rodney lets him go, terrified of any action that may make him change his mind about their tentative dinner plans. 

But John just takes a ragged breath and then they’re kissing again. 

Rodney barely registers it when Teyla and Ronon make a quiet exit and Ronon not so subtly announces he’ll be spending the night at Teyla’s. It simply doesn’t matter. Not when he’s busy exploring John’s mouth and acquainting himself with John’s tongue. John’s hand on his thigh encourages Rodney to move so he’s straddling John’s lap and suddenly he’s reminded of just why John isn’t moving.

“Your leg?” Rodney gasps.

“Good. It’s good. I’m good,” John mumbles, his words obscured as he mouths along Rodney’s neck. 

“Oh … that’s good,” Rodney trails off, rapidly loosing confidence in the face of John’s gorgeous hair and warm slim body pressed against his. Rodney feels rather unimpressive in comparison. 

John seems to sense his hesitation and turns his eyes upward. Rodney’s breath stutters just to see how blown they are with lust and affection. 

John tenderly pulls Rodney’s forehead down to his and whispers, “Why did we wait so long to do this?”

Rodney’s pretty sure it’s a rhetorical question, but he’s absolutely certain that he wants to have sex with John, so he looks to the unmade bed with fighter jets on the sheets.

“Bed?” Is what he finally manages to whisper.

It’s a bit of a trial getting John over to the bed without letting him injure himself, but Rodney manages it and strips him of his shirt and pants all at the same time. Needless to say, Rodney is feeling rather smug about his multi-tasking abilities until John shimmies out of his boxers and flops back on the bed. He doesn’t even remember to finish undressing himself until John props himself up on his elbows and announces he’ll be continuing without Rodney unless he gets a move on.

Where John is fit and toned from basketball, Rodney is soft and a tad underfed from too much time in the lab, but somehow everything clicks. Easing down over John, pressing his cock into the crease of John’s thigh, Rodney never felt like he belonged anywhere before this moment, before this person. Because John’s bucking back up, pushing his cock into Rodney’s hip and redefining everything Rodney values because this is what he can never live without. 

John’s overly dark eyes are burning him like a physical caress, his lips are forming Rodney’s name over and over. Then John is coming and Rodney can’t help but follow him over, calling John’s name and clutching his hand to keep him from floating away.

Rodney wakes up sometime later, spread haphazardly over John, his face tucked into the crook of his neck. He is honestly considering leaving for fear John doesn’t want him to be there when he wakes up, when John shifts and lazily blinks his eyes open. 

Rodney freezes in panic, but John just hauls him closer, carelessly pressing kisses to Rodney’s face and neck. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” John whispers, his hand coming up to clutch Rodney’s hair as Rodney’s heart stops beating.

“I want to have dinner every night. Not just Friday. Is that ok?” 

Relief floods through Rodney so quickly, he can’t help but laugh. “Yes, that’s more than ok. It’s more than … it’s just … perfect.”

“I can teach you to play basketball,” John whispers, clearly trying to be enticing. And Rodney can totally see him wiggling his eyebrows even in the dark. Just for that Rodney is so making him learn how to play ping-pong.


End file.
